Happiness!!!!!!!

I've been looking for this poem for ages. I finally found it, buried in one of the five flash drives I acquired over my junior and senior years of high school due to absentmindedness. I can't find the version I printed out, but I think this was the final version (from 31 May 2006).

The scene: English 11 Honors class. Of course, our teacher had barely half a brain, so the totally awesome AP US History teacher--with whom we shared a block and who was also our amazing Academic Team coach--was helping to teach the class. One class, he read Ginsburg's "Howl" to us, in the dark classroom, when the drama people had skipped class with suspicious permission because of the musical performed the night before. It was awesome. However, it came with an assignment: write your own "howl" and recite it in front of the class. We were even given permission to curse. Pure freedom of mind out on the paper.

I was glad to write the poem. But to perform it: I loathe public speaking. The poem was three pages of 8pt Times New Roman. I thought it was bad compared to the philosophically-deep, mentally-simple poems of my classmates. It's meant to be read aloud. Yell when all caps. Some sections are better with pauses, some better when you run the words together as fast as you can. You should be able to figure it out.

And yeah: my high school poetry doesn't like enjambment, for some reason. Hence, the long lines are because I haven't finished the thought. Once I got into enjambment, I still had long lines, but usually when I use it, it means the line is visually interesting/ironic, then.

On Public Speaking

I hate public speaking.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I hate it.

I hate public speaking.
I whine, I procrastinate, I try to prolong my happiness until I stand up and it falls.
Falls like reputations, falls like tears.

I hate public speaking.
That's all I would say,
but you
--you people who can stand it, stand up here and say it--
you can't understand what I mean.
Even if you once stood in my shoes,
you can't understand what I mean.
Even if you once were the introvert I am,
you can't understand what I mean.
You can't understand what I mean at all.

I tried to tell you once,
that I hate public speaking,
--did you listen?
Hell no, too convinced you'd gotten over it,
too convinced you could convince me to get over it.
I can't get over it because
you can't understand what I mean.
You can't understand what I mean at all
--that I hate public speaking.

Go absorb yourselves in your absurd bitch-talk, gossip, catcalls, bad trading winds.
You chatter, so I must chatter again.
And again.
And again.
And again, mumbling until I've faded out and slinked away from public view.
I mumble, mumble, mumble, I mumbleumbleumble chatter stammer stutter stagger fall slap
dead like concrete,
frozen bone blocks on some dumb mule of tongue
twisted on its own choke
--I meant yoke--
hooves splatter muck.

What the fuck?
I hate public speaking.
The words are on my page, right in front of my bumbling blind lips.
I said them perfectly fine
two seconds, two days, two weeks, two months, two years ago to your face.
Two steps to too much tongue-twisting
--slap dead like concrete.

Two steps
--you don't understand what those two steps mean.
Two millennia, those two steps.
To torture, those two steps.
Too fiery for me, those two steps.
You didn't notice, did you?
The way I slouched under my cave-paintinged desk,
as low as I could go, down to primal fight-or-flight.
I hate heights, but I'm a weakling.
Please O please O please O let me go last
or lightspeed, situpsay&sit all at once,
or even better, faster-than-light,
back in time so the time never comes.

I hate public speaking.
The way the words run through your head
plastering themselves upon calculus, physics, engineering, english, anything else I need to know?,
confusing the hell out of me like no other hell has before,
dragging me down as I carry the load,
roll over me like Sisyphus
I'll be back later for you to Tantalizingly tempt my mind.
That load on my back,
it's been there since I got this assignment.
Those fatal words: "Present this to the class"
and BAM fall slap dead like concrete on my back.
Leech my brains out my spinal cord until my dumb mumbling self sits before you and your profound poetry.
It sits there, day after day after day until that day.
See it? I doubt it.
I doubt you give a shit about it.
I doubt you give a shit about what I think about it.
No problem, it's not your problem, it's my problem.
My problem is I do give a shit about what you think.

And you never see it,
see that I hate public speaking.
The introvert, so nervous anyway, pacing any way anyway.
That frantic pacing,
to the water fountain and back,
"Are we in Terry's room today?"
Two minutes later, I ask
"Can I go to the bathroom?"
two, three, six thousand times
to pace the whole one step area of the stall
two, three, six thousand times.
Scream a scream in the mirror
and give Munch some inspiration.
Scare the pants off him,
wonder if he's ever seen a incomplete introvert stand in front of the class before.

I hate public speaking.
I have all the classic signs:
slouch in my seat,
slosh my feet,
pace in molasses time to the podium
leaving bugass streaks from seat to speech
connect the tiles, tell stories,
some life of a bug progresses to nothing at all.

Progresses? Digress, degress, Congress.
At least Horace came out decently. Barely.
Flat out fucked up my Caesar--flop flunked flam
and that was in front of just one person.

Take that back:
She wasn't even in front of me.

I hate public speaking.
Caterpillars jitterbug up through my spit in a tight throat cocoon
and the butterflies breach me open in fearsome blooming.
Beautiful, like you say my poetry is?
Psh, hell no and you know it.
Bland, blurry, ordinary moths drawn, drown in failure's flame,
burn in blushing, embarrassing fire.
I shiver, twitching like the bug wings inside,
feet frozen, fingers flubbed.

I hate public speaking,
and I hope you can tell it by now.
You can see how I'm gripping the podium now, can't you?
Fine.
GRAB THE PODIUM, MAN!
Grip it hard and never let go.
Good thing I bite my nails worse than a termite bites wood;
you'd discover the true location of the Grand Canyon rimming this podium.

I hate public speaking.
I need something to throw.
I threw a stress ball once.
At George. Figures, right?
Missed.
He twitched,
my arm twitched,
my eyes twitched,
my tongue twitched,
blanked out on some twitchy witch's spell.

I hate public speaking.
How the words play hide and seek with the mind,
see it now and now it's gone--can't catch me, you fool, you mule!
Blank, nothing there.
You stare.
And stare and you and stare you and you stare and
and and and eyes pierce mine,
I got your forehead but still you stare,
You sit bucknaked but still you stare,
I look at the back wall
and still you stare
it stares,
the clock stares,
(it ticks me off,
that staring)
the hallway stairs stare,
drop my eyes to stare
and the stare--it's still there,
hold the Grand Canyon closer
and it stares back,
look to the ceiling
Heaven's stair stares back,
back at my weak atheist back,
close my eyes and I stare--

STOP STARING!

It ticks me off.

I hate public speaking.
Do a drumroll with a pen between my fingers.
Beat an armadillo to a ball.
Two, three, six thousand wins over a turtle shrinking back,
staring back.
Film frames freeze between my darting eyes, staring eyes,
strobe lights too slow for me.
Tongue in mashed potatoes and words sucking spit up
fuel the red cheeks and drumroll.
Eyes drumming on my head, drilling through my head, staring.

I hate public speaking.
I sit down after, and I know it.
You stare at me
(and I, staring at the floor)
as I walk back to my seat.
Stare at the weeping wimp, who can't stand it.
Who can't stand up there and say it like you can.
You can't understand what I mean-- I knew it.
Definitely, infinitely[,] better.
I knew it.
I knew it.
I knew it you stared it stared twitch blank fall slap dead like concrete
I knew it.

I hate public speaking.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I hate it.

But I wonder.
Is it the public part I hate?
Or the speaking?
Some people say I write wonderfully,
perfect poetry,
and I wonder,
do I write well because I suck at oratory?
Can you hear my voice in your head when you read my stuff,
because that voice is too frightened to come out of my own mouth?
I can't yell at you in person,
so I have to scream through the page.
Do you see what I see when my prose sits around you,
because my hands won't budge from a straight-jacket stance?
I'm too afraid to budge from this podium,
plunge me into that Grand Canyon,
and you'll soon see what darkness I find looking in that glass.
Do you feel what I feel when my words scream in agony
because I can't bring myself to look you in the eye,
pierce your soul, your heart, your very morals with naught but a finger and a stare?
Do you laugh because I laugh along with you,
tripping over my own tongue and enjoying it,
because no one is around to hear me?
or do you cry with me as I meet silence among a stuffed animal mock audience,
because no one is around to hear me?

Speaking, I suppose that's not the part I hate.
I can speak quite well through words.
It's the public, which isn't so public except to me.
Words on a page, I can sit there with you,
laughing, crying, seeing, feeling, hearing, any verbing you want.
I'm inside your head, and you see what I see, you understand me.
Public? I'm my ownself.
You told me to be me, not you.
Have my own body, my own mind.
Well, it's nice to have my own, but I can't see your mind anymore.
I can't understand it.
I can fake facial expressions, read them quite well.
But I can't understand what you mean by that stare.
Are you really staring at the blackboard behind me,
or the clock above the teacher's head?
Is that harried roll of the eyes for me, or is it just a silent groan at an hour left to go?

Do I hate public speaking?
Or have I found the meaning of introversion:
wanting solitude,
but fearing loneliness?
Words on a page, I can write them by myself, solitary hunter in a cave.
Words on my tongue, I can only say by myself, prey out in the open for soothing gratitude or biting criticism.
Is that all public speaking is?
A euphenism for the introverted barrier?

I hate public speaking.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I hate it.

But I guess you're right:
I gotta get over it.

//------------
I thought this poem was not good enough when I had to present it. I got interrupted a couple of times, either to the mention of George or when I tried to pick up the podium on the gripping line, but didn't realize that the podium was actually a two-part piece that ended up slamming on my fingers when I "slammed" it down. But after I finished, I not only got applause, but a standing ovation. You can say I was thoroughly confused that afternoon, because I didn't think it was that awesome of a poem.